


Above his mattress, below his mattress, inside his mattress. If there’s such a thing as a fourth mattress dimension, go over that too. -Gibbs, NCIS

by orphan_account



Series: 101 Quotes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, This is what happens when Sherlock's out of the country, Usual day at the office, did you miss me?, for George, greg - Freeform, nothing special, oh no sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There has been a murder. Which is a bad thing, especially since Sherlock is out of the country for two weeks. In Paris. </p><p>Companion to Everything In Paris Is Gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Above his mattress, below his mattress, inside his mattress. If there’s such a thing as a fourth mattress dimension, go over that too. -Gibbs, NCIS

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this and also happen to work in entertainment (yes, Graham Norton, I AM looking at you!), please, be so kind and do NOT use my work. I repeat, I do NOT give my consent for you to use this!  
> Also, if you are, by some weird coincidence, Moffat/Gatiss/Famous, do not read whatever I write. If you read this...close the page. Now. It's not too late yet. Because my writing is horrible and you will hate me. And yourself for reading.  
> Be kind, and do not share my work with cast or crew.
> 
> Oh well, I wouldn't even be mad if they read this. This one's okay-ish.   
> Still. Don't share.

"No, there don't seem to be any traces of DNA on the mattress." Anderson states, a frown decorating his face. Lestrade sighs at that. This has officially been the third murder in one week, all following the same pattern and all compatible to the same profile. And now, well, it's serial now. He isn't made for solving serial crimes. He's good with arson, yes. That's an easy job. Or passion crimes (at least some passion he can experience, because he won't find it at home.) and he's really good at solving minor cases. But serial killers are just _not his division._  
"But I could check on the wall above, although it's very, very unlikely."

"Above his mattress, below his mattress, inside his mattress. If there’s such a thing as a fourth mattress dimension, go over that too," Lestrade answers while pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache is acting up again, and if he doesn't do anything it might result into a full on migraine. Which is not good.   
"Get Sherlock," he orders while tipping Donovan on the shoulder, but at that moment he remembers; Sherlock's not in the country. No, Sherlock and John are _in Paris_. Wonderful. The French just have to ruin everything, don't they? With their _bleu-blanc-rouge_ and big towers and _croissants_ and _baguettes_ and _fromage_. 

Okay, he may just hate the French because he has never been able to learn a single word (except various words describing breakfast food and bread), but that doesn't matter right now. Right now, France is holding Sherlock Holmes captive and he really, _really_ needs him. 

"Sir, Sherlock is-" Donovan starts but he interrupts her rather rudely with a muttered "I know I know" and she just averts her gaze to face the ground instead of looking at the face belonging to Detective Inspector Lestrade, which is now, without doubt, showing off a facial expression the killer probably used too. While killing. 

"Why are they in Paris anyway?" Massaging his temples. Counting to ten. Breathing in. Slowly breathing out.

"Someone killed a guy in the middle of Paris, yet no one saw something," she answers, sounding rather stressed. And as he groans silently and balls his fists until his knuckles turn coffee cream white, she quickly adds, "I'll get you some coffee, Sir."

Yes, coffee. Coffee sounds great. And as he walks by his car he can't help himself but lunch forward, foot making contact with the tyre in a rather agressive (and painful) way.

"How can he not leave any traces?!" 

-

Two days later he kills again. Lestrade gets the text while he's in his office, reading the profile their behavioural analyst delivered. Eyes scanning the paper, lingering over words like smart, controlled, triggered. Great, if Sherlock were here, he would find at least five or more mistakes; but he's not Sherlock, and he can't find any. 

"We're missing something. Something big," he mutters to himself, grabbing the coffee in front of him, taking a sip only to spit it out again. Nothing is worse than lukewarm, bitter coffee. 

Except for triple homicide, maybe. 

He lets his head fall into his hands, letting it rest there for a brief moment, and then his cell phone vibrates. Shit. 

_Fourth victim found. Fits the profile._

Okay, let's make it a quadruple homicide. Great. There's a serial killer terrorising London, they've just lost a case due to _scant evidence_ and Donovan has to retake some psychological tests and an unpaid leave for two weeks because some drunk idiot committed suicide by cop. 

"Sir." Anderson's head pops up in the doorframe, and his face tells him this is bad. "Yes, Anderson," he answers, laying down his phone, "What's wrong?"

"The murder, he left a note on the crime scene. They just faxed it to us." 

For a brief moment, well, exactly as long as it takes Anderson to give him the note, he wonders why people still fax stuff, and then his eyes fall onto the paper. 

No way. 

The handwriting is artistic, almost frail. Thin black lines of ink written down onto yellowed paper. Even though it's a fax, he can tell it's old paper. Sherlock would be able to tell where it's from and what gender the writer is. 

Well, so can he. Even better, he can tell exactly who wrote this. But that's just not possible. 

_Did you miss me? J.M._

 


End file.
